


White Glove Treatment

by Mazarin221b



Series: Spider to the Fly [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Breathplay, Butt Plugs, Dom/sub, Leather gloves, M/M, Sex Toys, Subsherlock, domJohn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 16:49:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3454514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I’m nervous about this, Sherlock. I won’t say I’m not. I won’t fight you, and I won’t force you. If you want this, I expect complete and total obedience to everything I’m telling you, and you to submit of your own free will. If you so much as twitch in a way that shows you aren’t behaving yourself, I’ll stop. Immediately. Understood?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Yes, John.”</i>
</p><p>Can be read as part of my Spider to the Fly Universe, but stands well on its on as a self-contained piece of smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Glove Treatment

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LiveJournal Come At Once 24-hour porn challenge! My prompt, from LadyRedCrest, was "white gloves." Un-beta'd and un-Britpicked, so PM me any issues if you see any.
> 
> Note: Breathplay, especially as I have it written here (a cross between suffocation and strangulation) is a very dangerous sort of thing to do on a whim. In other words, unless you're in the hands of an experienced, trusted, well-trained Dom/Domme who's been doing this sort of thing for many years, don't try this at home, kids.

The first touch is soft, buttery kid leather gliding effortlessly over his skin in a long, cool sweep from nape to arse. Its almost clinical, that touch, his body separated from John’s warm skin by a bare millimeter of white leather glove. Being touched, caressed, but not fully claimed.

Sherlock twists in his bonds, shivering.  He can hear John huff a laugh from somewhere behind him, the sound echoing from the corners of the large, mostly empty room. If Mrs. Hudson only knew what 221C was being used for, these days.

“Patience, my lovely,” John says, and traces the necklace around his neck with a gloved finger, the infinity links pressed into his skin like a brand as John pushes hard against his carotid artery. “We’ll get there. You know your safeword. I expect you to use it. The bell in your hand is to drop if you can’t speak. Nod your head if you understand.”

Sherlock nods and arches his back, knees and shoulders digging into the mattress, the cold metal of the bell cutting into his palm. If he speaks other than to say his safeword, it’s over. If he fights John off, its over. The ground rules John had lain for this particular experiment were clear.

_“I’m nervous about this, Sherlock. I won’t say I’m not. I won’t fight you, and I won’t force you. If you want this, I expect complete and total obedience to everything I’m telling you, and you to submit of your own free will. If you so much as twitch in a way that shows you aren’t behaving yourself, I’ll stop. Immediately. Understood?”_

_“Yes, John.”_

So Sherlock goes pliant under John’s hands as they caress his back, his sides; glide over his hipbones. John wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s cock, the leather a bit tacky where it catches precome and smears it over the head. Sherlock grunts at the sharp hit of lust that sparks from belly to brain, and bites his lip to keep from moaning out loud. John didn’t say not to make any noise at all, but Sherlock figures he’d better not push it.

That doesn’t mean he can’t issue any non-verbal requests, though. He arches his back again, sways his hips so that John gets a good look at the base of the glass plug he’s had in all morning. He wants John to get on with it, to pull out that plug and slam into him, fuck him open and raw and needy until …until…

“Yes, I see you, my lovely. Should have known I’d never get you to just let me be completely in charge for once.”  John traces a finger around the base of the plug, the leather dragging against Sherlock’s skin and making him suck in a breath before John grips the plug and eases it out of Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock gasps. He can’t help it—the emptiness is almost shocking in its intensity. The anticipation for John to just get on with it is making him tremble, the soft black ropes that bind his wrists to his ankles are starting to chafe, and it’s a near thing as he simply takes a breath and stills, waiting.

John, fortunately, doesn’t make him wait long. He pushes into Sherlock’s body in one slow glide, his hands on Sherlock’s hips as he begins to fuck him with slow, rhythmic strokes that leave Sherlock panting into the sheets.

“Yes, oh God, perfect. You like how I feel, don’t you, my lovely?”

Sherlock nods. Yes, _dear God_ yes. John’s bigger than the plug, and his skin is just so _hot_ , the shocking fire of it bringing Sherlock to the edge almost before he’s ready.

“You’re close, aren’t you,” John says, and finally, finally his hands slip around Sherlock’s neck, his skilled touch finding Sherlock’s artery again and those cool leather gloves press down, the pressure steady and unrelenting as John continues to snap his hips so hard Sherlock can feel a bit of a friction burn starting on his shoulders where they’re jammed into the sheet.

Sherlock gasps, his vision starting to go hazy at the edges and he’s feeling a bit woozy, floaty. It’s not unlike being high, the lack of oxygen to his brain making him lose a bit of grip on reality. It’s glorious, perfect, the burn of John’s cock fucking him the only bright spot in his rapidly-fading world.

His body, however, starts to have other ideas, and Sherlock can feel the need to fight ramp up as his heartbeat speeds, his involuntary need to breathe, to get more oxygen to his brain tensing his muscles, flooding his body with adrenaline and in a heartbeat he’s edge of the precipice of fighting, of throwing John off. But this is John, John whom he trusts with his life and his heart, who loves him and takes care of him and just as Sherlock clenches his fist and opens his mouth to say his safeword or drop the bell, his orgasm takes over and he closes his eyes as his body shakes and trembles, completely giving up the fight  in order to submit to John’s whim just as the room goes dark.

When he comes to, John is just pulling out of his body. He gently lays Sherlock on his side and pulls apart all the knots that held his wrists to his ankles. The room is dim, and quiet, and Sherlock’s mind is a blissful blank space, calm and collected.

“You were so beautiful, my lovely. I could feel you let go and let me take over. How are you feeling?”

Sherlock squirms around until he can look up into John’s worried eyes. He presses a thumb to the crease over the bridge of John’s nose. So perfect, his John.  “Wonderful,” Sherlock says, and his voice is a bit strained. “Will there be bruises?”

John inspects his neck. “Perhaps one, from the seam in the gloves.”

“Hmmmm,” Sherlock says, and stretches his neck to preen. It’s a little sore, but beautifully so. “Next time, perhaps satin. Smaller seams.”

John sighs, and shakes his head before pulling off the gloves and placing a delicate hand over Sherlock’s throat. “No. I think a reward is due. Next time, I’ll take you with my bare hands. I want to feel your heartbeat against my fingertips.”

Sherlock grins, and John leans over and kisses him, one hand curled around Sherlock’s throat and one against his heart.

 

 

 

 


End file.
